


Lost

by afoxinsocks



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:03:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10374315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afoxinsocks/pseuds/afoxinsocks
Summary: Coda to S4E4 Harvest.The same photo, taken years ago now, stares back at him with a new title. Detective Sergeant. After everything it should mean something and yet, somehow, it asks more questions than it answers.





	

It's a dark shell, his flat; illuminated only by stripes of light from lamp posts above. Morse drinks to the endless rotation of static from the turntable, the contents of his life, such as it is, returned around him in bags and boxes. A glass or so ago, perhaps two, no more than three, the final strains of Mahler first faded from the flat. He'd meant to replay the record but somehow the distance between the bed and the record player had stretched out and became too great an obstacle to overcome. He could walk if he wanted to, he's sure of it, but he can’t bring himself to try. Maybe, he considers, knocking back the remnants of his glass, if he simply sits and listens for long enough, drinks hard enough for long enough, the static will morph into music once again. Or at least drown out the ringing in his ears.

Glass in one hand, lazily, unsteadily refilled, he eyes the evidence of his recent promotion in the other. It hasn’t changed since the station, although he half expects it to. As if it will suddenly slip and slide away or rearrange itself somehow. A mirage brought on by misery. The same photo, taken years ago now, stares back at him with a new title. _Detective Sergeant_. After everything it should mean something and yet, somehow, it asks more questions than it answers. Makes the future cloudier and more tangled still, when it should sharpen and crystallise.

_The one that got away. Squandered. A policeman? A detective. You should’ve said something._

_Things can turn out how you want them to._

The scrape of the gate is followed by footsteps, shadows that pass through the window, and a rap at the door. If the distance between the bed and the turntable is too much, the door seems an ocean away and it can stay there, Morse thinks, draining his glass again and refilling it. There are few people he wishes to see; even fewer who wish to see him and soon, soon they won’t have to. He’s not prepared for the turning of a key in the lock. Burglars, perhaps, the thought occurs dully. To take what little he has left. Or maybe they could help him pack?

Burglars don’t use keys.

It’s Thursday. It could only be Thursday; given a key at his insistence, after too many nights spent hefting a beaten and broken Morse down the stairs and into bed. And it is Thursday, hat dipped low over eyes that note first the record player, sweep the room and land on Morse as the door clicks shut.

“You’re still here then?”

“I am, indeed, still here.” He pours Thursday a glass which is declined with a shake of the hand. _Oh well_. The contents join his glass and he knocks them back easily.  

“Celebrating alone?”

“Drinking alone,” he corrects. “Not much to celebrate.”

Thursday eyes the warrant card, still clasped in his hand. “No?”

“No.”

There’s nothing to see in the shadows of Thursday’s face. No emotion. No clues. A great detective. A good policeman.

“You’ll be off to London then?”

_You always know._

“Will I?”

“ _Won’t you_?” There’s an edge there. Thursday’s knuckles white as he grips his hat. There's tension, underneath. 

“No.” The word takes him by surprise, feels thick and heavy as it rolls around his mouth, directed more to the glass than Thursday. Morse finishes his drink and this time doesn’t replenish it, only looks up to hold Thursday’s gaze, glass set at his feet. “No, I don’t think so.”

Don’t know so.

He watches Thursday absorb the information with only a nod of the head and a slight slumping of his shoulders that matches a long exhale. If he were Morse he’d be twitching all over the shop, hand in his hair, twisting and turning. He’s not, though. He’s solid and stable, even made out of outlines and shadows.

The static snaps to a stop, the record finally run out.

“What were you listening to?”

“ _Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen.”_

_You want to be lost? Well, might as well make it official._

A single, slow nod again, movement and then the hiss and scratch of the needle, the music fades in and soon the contralto’s mournful song fills the flat once more. Morse watches Thursday watching him until the music becomes too much, the weight of Thursday’s stare with it, and he’s forced to close his eyes, hands threaded through his hair, head bowed.  He feels, so much as hears Thursday’s movement, but that doesn’t stop him from startling as a large, warm hand brushes through his hair, curves round his jaw and strokes a thumb over his cheek as it tilts his head up. Even sober, he would find Thursday’s looks impossible to decipher; he’s too close to untangle, to see the forest for the trees.

He struggles to his feet, because he should - _shouldn’t he_? -  and the room pitches around him, his head echoing in response, eyes slamming shut. Thursday’s hand drops to the back of his neck, squeezes gently until he opens his eyes and there’s Thursday. Thursday and nothing else.

“My Joan,” he starts, and his voice is far rougher than Morse’s, despite the lack of drink. “Would be _lucky_ to have a man like you. Anyone would – I – We – We’re all…"

Morse makes a noise of rebuttal, shakes his head and feels it spin because it’s not the truth, it’s nowhere close but then Thursday all but surrounds him, pulls him into his chest and brushes a kiss into his curls. He’s held until the room steadies around them, until the moment passes and then Thursday’s hat shadows his eyes and he’s out of reach.  

“I’ll see you on Monday, Sergeant.”

“On Monday, Sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> Morse plays Kathleen Ferrier's 1952 performance of Mahler's "Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen" ("I've Become Lost To The World") .


End file.
